Serrati Stellas
by Mattwho81
Summary: During his first command a new Sergeant must contend with deadly dangers and the doubts of his superiors as he struggles complete his mission. This story is a sequel to my previous story Maledicti Venator.
1. Chapter 1

**Storm Heralds Reading List**

 **Book1** Maledicti Venator, Serrati Stellas

 **Serrati Stellas**

 **945.M41**

In the vast darkness of space points of light moved, bright sparks against the infinite black. From a distance they appeared little more than cinders cooling to ash but as the viewer approached they grew in size and stature. At a closer range it was apparent each one was kilometres long, bearing weapons the size of buildings and armour equally thick with plasma wakes snaking behind them. They were sleek killers of the void, fast predators feared and beloved in equal measure by the citizens of the Imperium. Their dark blue and grey heraldry declared their fealty and even a first-year Naval cadet would have recognised them for being three Hunter class escorts and a Strike Cruiser of the Adeptus Astartes, from the Storm Heralds Space Marines. The cruiser was a scarred veteran of the void, a survivor of countless engagements and upon her hull was the name 'Manifest Destiny'.

Her bridge was a high vaulted affair with gargoyle infested arches and long naves, the multitudes of servitors and serf officers laid out like choirs in a Cathedral. Busy crowds worked in a controlled manner and though the noise was deafening, to experienced star-farers it was the reassuring sound of an orderly ship. In the centre of the bridge a Space Marine stood, surveying the crowds of serfs. His blue armour was well maintained yet still minuscule chips and scores attested to his decades of service as did the wisps of grey edging into his shorn hair. One shoulder bore the spiral in a starburst icon of the Storm Heralds and the helm at his waist had a gleaming Sergeants' gold stripe, while his knee bore the emblem of Ninth Company. The other shoulder was engraved with the name 'Toran' and he stood proudly, looking into the bridge's hololithic projector, examining the dank and dreary planetoid displayed high above their heads. It was an old world, aged and dour, like a weather-beaten statue.

Toran was joined by another Marine, this one a towering giant in the nigh mythic Mark III armour, engraved with the name 'Furion'. He stood at attention until Toran noticed he was there then briskly reported, "Astrogation reports orbital insertion complete, servitor probes deploying now."

"My thanks Brother," replied Toran, still looking at the dismal world below, "Yet another empty world to patrol, yet another disappointing survey."

He touched a rune on the rail before him, widening the projection field to encompass the stellar system then the whole region. Toran stated, "I had hoped for more from my first command: the Serrati Stellas, the worst knot of gravitic anomalies, ionic interference and Warp Squalls in the Sector. Den of pirates, slavers and Orks, I thought my final evaluation would be a time of daring battles and glorious victories, not a simple patrol cruise."

Furion looked at his brand-new Sergeant, if there was any hint of discontent at the younger Marine being promoted over him it did not show. Instead he said, "Space is vast and we are few, even between the Imperial Navy and the Astartes there are thousands of worlds beyond our grasp. We could be the first Imperials to pass this way in a thousand years."

"I know," replied Toran wistfully, "But how am I to prove to Chaplain Wrethan that I am worthy of this promotion if I do not have a chance to demonstrate my abilities."

Furion stepped closer and spoke softly, not as a warrior and commander, but simply as two old friends, "If you will excuse the familiarity, I have watched you grow these last fifty years into a fine Space Marine and a great leader. You have the potential to lead, you just need to be confident in your abilities. You understand the Codex as well as I, yet also have a gift to see unexpected paths to victory, but if you have one flaw it is that you are impatient with the less glorious aspects of our life. You need to prove to the Chaplains that you are as attentive to the mundane details of commanding a squad as you are when blasting Heretics."

Toran could not help but smile at the gentle prompt by his old friend and said, "I confess I had no idea how much paperwork a Sergeant has. If I have to read one more report on the number of training Servitors IXth Squad has demolished or plasma engine tolerances or Emperor forbid another treatise on orbital dynamics my brain will burst."

Furion laughed at that, then turned as he heard armoured boots approaching. Entering through the bridge's armoured hatch was another Brother, in shining new plate, polished so thoroughly it gleamed. His name was 'Novak' and he was fresh out of the scouts. Sometimes the gene-seed threw up odd quirks and here it had made Novak uncommonly beautiful, a strange trait for an Astartes. His unscarred visage, gleaming armour and parade-perfect march made it easy to underestimate him but with a blade in hand he was a prodigy. So proficient was he that the Chapter had allowed him to eschew a standard gladius and instead adopt an unconventional rapier blade, a rare honour but whispers had it that Novak was expected to one day win a Swordsman's laurel, a feat few ever achieved. Toran found it hard to believe that he had ever been so young and green, but the only real flaw within Novak was that he had a rather loose tongue. But Toran was sure that with some seasoning that flaw could be swiftly corrected so as a training exercise they had appointed Novak to be liaison with their escort squadron.

Novak marched straight up to the pair and made the sign of the Aquilla. Toran saluted back and said, "How is the squad?"

Novak stood like he was on parade and replied, "All is well, the squad is performing perfectly though Brother Persion says they grow bored below decks."

"Tell Persion we will find him a good fight soon enough," replied Toran ruefully for he, Furion and Persion were the old men of the squad. Their former Brother Hevostan had departed decades ago to train as a Techmarine on Mars. Then there was Mylos who had been a Brother in name and also in blood, having had a twin. Sadly Pylos had died in battle and regrettably Mylos had never been able to accept it and had soured his soul with blame and resentment. So bad had the situation become that he was eventually transferred out to Seventh Company. Meanwhile IXth Squad had been effectively rebuilt with new recruits and transfers, who for one reason or another never lasted more than a few years.

Toran reflected on this then said, "This ship feels empty enough without a full Company aboard, let alone with two-thirds of IXth Squad spread across the flotilla."

Furion butted in to say, "This mission is simple reconnaissance, it does not take a full Company to patrol a few dead systems."

Toran made sure no serfs were listening then asked Novak "And the other matter?"

Novak leaned in and replied, "I have spoken to each brother individually on the matter of Emperor Worship, it seems the discontent is more widespread than we thought. Every member of IXth Squad agrees that the worship has taken us from the true calling of battle, they are committed to our cause."

"Watch your tone young one," stated Toran, "You speak like this is some grand conspiracy or Heresy, we are not some coven of conspirators. Merely brothers discussing matters of concern."

Furion looked over his Brother's shoulder and said, "This is neither the time nor the place."

Toran and Novak turned to look towards the rear of the bridge and then they saw the intimidating silhouette of Chaplain Wrethan bearing down on them. He was clad in black armour, adorned with pearl white skulls and his breast bore a shining Rosarius. At his hip hung his doughty Crozius, Redeeming-Flame, a most blessed and potent weapon and the symbol of his spiritual authority. Wrethan's grim visage and grinding voice had been the bane of every Scouts' life for he could never fail to find fault in those he trained. Yet for those who earned his respect there was a sharp intellect and fierce sense of pride lurking behind that skull mask. Ultimately there was none in the Chapter more ardent in their zeal nor unwavering in their belief in the Divinity of the Emperor.

Wrethan marched up to the three Space Marines and gave Furion and Novak a glare that clearly indicated they should be somewhere else, so they hastily departed to various stations. Once they were occupied Wrethan regarded Toran then said, "Sergeant, your first command draws to a close, give me your evaluation."

Toran stood straighter and replied, "The flotilla performed well, the serfs completed their assignments ably and did not let repetition or boredom dull their edge."

"And the mission?" queried Wrethan.

Remembering Furion's advice Toran replied, "We have successfully patrolled a dozen systems and declared them free of enemies of the Emperor, an important duty completed with due diligence."

Wrethan gave him a penetrating stare and Toran felt like the Chaplain could see his thoughts so admitted, "I confess, I was expecting more action in this mission. I was eager to serve the Emperor's justice to his foes."

Wrethan's expression was unreadable under his skull helm but he said, "The Emperor sees all and all things happen in accordance with His Will. If He desires you to stand a lonely vigil or patrol uninteresting worlds you should feel honoured to do so."

"Yes Father," replied Toran, using the Storm Herald's traditional epithet for their spiritual guides.

He was about to ask what Wrethan's recommendation would be but before he could say anything Furion suddenly turned from the bridge consoles to call, "Sergeant, energy spikes detected in low orbit. There are hostile ships out there!"

Toran was instantly moving to the command dais yelling, "Sound Action stations! Close the blast shutters over the Oculus, run out the guns and bless the Plasma Engines for emergency manoeuvres. Sensorium, I want full Auspex sweeps, give me confirmed numbers, class and capability reports, put it all on the Hololith."

The serf's movements became frantic as they prepared for battle, Furion took up station at the helm to coordinate the ship and Novak stood by the communication suite. In only a few minutes the bridge stood ready and the three-dimensional image suspended over the bridge updated to show all the contacts and vectors. Toran stared glared into the projection and stated, "There are only six small signatures and they are slowly awakening reactors. Power levels are extremely erratic, I predict a high probability that these are Ork escort frigates."

"Excellent," declared Wrethan from the rear of the command dais, "Then the Divine-Emperor has blessed this mission with bloodshed after all, providence unfolds before us."

At his words the Serfs cheered and clutched devotional talismans like they would bestow divine favour. Toran however gripped the wooden railing circling the dais as he ordered, "Load bombardment cannons and take us into the gravity well. Novak, signal Venator squadron, they are to hold a higher orbit and prepare to run down stragglers."

With stately grace the Manifest Destiny lowered herself into the gravity well, guns presenting gaping maws of destruction and plasma drives flaring like captured suns. It was a sight to stir any man's heart and the bridge crew held their heads high knowing that they would soon win another glorious victory. Then unexpectedly Novak leapt up from the communication suite and yelled, "New contacts, New contacts! Venator squadron reports mass shadows moving up fast from behind the planetary terminus!"

He looked straight at his Sergeant and declared, "We have two Ork Kill Kroozers on an intercept trajectory!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Serrati Stellas Chapter 2**

On the bridge of the Manifest Destiny true panic set in, officers and crewmen running ragged, trying desperately to find a flaw in their computations but the result was inescapable: they had blundered into a crude trap and the jaws were closing in. Amid the clamour the four Space Marines stood still and calm like carved statues, not a hint of concern upon their faces. Though they too felt the pressure of the situation they knew the crew needed to see them remain in control, so they stood stoic and aloof. Sergeant Toran was staring at the Hololith, creating and discarding plans in his mind with Transhuman speed, while the other three discussed the tactical situation with as much concern as they would the weather.

Furion was saying "We went too deep into the gravity well, no matter which way we manoeuvre the Kill Kroozers will overrun us before we can reach escape velocity."  
Wrethan added, "If we rise to engage the Kroozers the escorts would be the ones fighting up the gravity well."

Novak looked for a reaction from his Sergeant but Toran was lost in the Hololith, looking like he had not even heard a word, so instead he asked, "Can one strike cruiser take on two Kill Kroozers?"  
Furion replied frankly, "Without a Battle Company on board... No we cannot."

"We can still complete the mission," declared Wrethan, "This is no mere gaggle of freebooters but a fully-fledged Ork Horde, the Chapter must learn of this threat. Signal Venator Squadron and order them to break orbit and make for the Warp Translation point. We will delay the Orks long enough for them to escape and warn the Chapter."  
Young Novak looked perturbed but he bravely said, "Then our deaths will be glorious."

Wrethan nodded his skull helm and said, "Blessed are we, for the Divine Emperor has granted us a fine death!"  
But all were shocked by Toran snapping out of his reverie, turning from the Hololith to yell, "Belay that order! Divert power to the plasma engines, helm prepare for extreme manoeuvres."

Chaplain Wrethan turned about gripping Redeeming-flame tightly as he growled, "Toran do not test my patience, you do not have the experience to deal with this threat."  
Toran faced him directly and refused to be cowed as he said, "Father Wrethan, while I bow to your wisdom on matters spiritual you are here solely in an advisory capacity. Chapter Master Gorgall personally put me in command of this mission, you may offer advice but only I may issue orders."

Wrethan stared at Toran, the eyes of his skull helm deep pitiless pits of judgement. For long seconds they locked gazes in a contest of wills, then Wrethan's grip on his Crozius loosened and he said, "Indeed Sergeant, you are correct, I commend your detailed knowledge of the Holy Codex's protocols."

He turned to face the command Nave and shouted loudly, "All crew now hear this: your commander expects every man to serve today knowing full well the eyes of the Divine Emperor are upon him!"

Toran stepped forwards and stated, "Thank you Father, Helmsmen beseech full power from the Plasma drives and decrease our orbital altitude as low as you dare. Sensorium officers perform continuous sweeps as we manoeuvre, I want every detail of the planet and orbital space scanned in case of surprises. Furion, tell the Enginseers to begin amassing reserve power in the capacitors, take it from weapons and shields if they have too, just leave me the plasma engines."

He turned to face the communication suite saying, "Novak, signal Persion and tell him to elevate Venator squadron three hundred kilometres and awaken the Torpedoes for a strike on the Kill Kroozers. Permission granted to fire as soon as they have a shooting solution, then they will disengage."

As the crew and servitors moved to obey Wrethan stepped closer and said softly, "At such extreme range the Orks will easily evade a torpedo strike I... advise saving the shot until they are too close to evade."  
Toran stood ramrod straight and said "Thank you Father Wrethan but I am counting on them evading."

"They will stray into our path," replied Wrethan  
"Right where we want them to be," stated Toran with steely determination.

With stately grace the Manifest Destiny lowered itself deeper into orbit; the ship sinking closer to the planet and as it did so the curious dynamics of orbital space meant its speed increased too. Already thrusting at full the strike cruiser was now accelerating well beyond its design tolerances. The hull creaked and groaned but it had known the terrors of Warp Space and held true.

After a few long minutes Novak arose from among the communication vestry and announced, "Venator squadron is launching torpedoes." Toran turned to watch the Hololith eagerly as the icons trawled across it and then there was a sudden burst of movement from the Kroozers, not away from the Strike Cruiser but in typical Ork fashion straight towards it.  
Novak yelled "Orks vessels changing vectors; Kroozers are evading and are Escorts closing fast from behind, they will have a clear shot at our stern!"

Yet Toran only grinned as he saw his radical strategy had paid off. He gripped the command rail tightly and yelled, "Helm lower the bow three degrees: take us into the Atmosphere!"  
The deck officers looked shocked, but still complied yet Toran's gen-enhanced hearing could still pick out Furion muttering, "You better know what you're doing Lad..."

As the bow sank the thinnest wisps of atmosphere began to caress the hull, making it glow cherry red with the friction of re-entry. The serfs began to mutter fearfully and kiss small Aquila tokens but Toran's gaze was fixed in the Hololtih, enthralled as the icons moved. Fierce vibrations began to shake the ship, causing servitors to sway in their sockets and made the crew cling to their consoles. Right light glowed through the armoured louvers of the oculus filling the bridge with a blood-red light and a terrible vibration drowned out the crowds of shouting serfs.

Holding onto a juddering console Furion cried, "We are surfing air, drag is slowing us down!"  
Toran held firm to the shaking pulpit rail and ordered sternly, "Increase reactor output and cut all non-essential systems, channel everything to the plasma engines: we must maintain our speed!"

Filled with concern Furion shouted, "Enginseers report the ship's spirit is offended at such disrespectful handling, magnetic containment fields are failing and power levels are fluctuating!"  
But Toran was unyielding and commanded, "Then tell them to pray for forgiveness and drain power from life support and the artificial gravity fields!"

The Manifest Destiny was shaking hard now, the pitiless drag of air clawing at auspex arrays and ripping free stone Gargoyles from its hull, the ship was built for the silkiness of vacuum and carved through the air with all the grace of a rock hitting a pond. Drained of vital power the artificial gravity fields went into flux and inertia crept through, the bridge crew groaned as they were pressed hard into consoles and seats. On one deck every man was hurled into the walls as the floor suddenly became slanted and in the Apothecarion a simple surgery on a sick crewman became tragic when the gravity shifted sideways, causing the chirugeon to nick an artery.

In the Thunderhawk bay a servitor-driven cart was hurled over on its side spilling Promethium fuel everywhere and filling the hanger with fumes. Unfortunately at the same time the vibrations cracked a pipe servicing the air recycling system, venting pure oxygen and turning the atmosphere into a Fuel-air bomb. Before anyone could react the entire bay caught fire, killing a hundred serfs and destroying servitors by the dozen. Only the proud Thunderhawks survived, their hulls built for re-entry they were untroubled by mere fire. The Manifest Destiny's spirit reacted in time honoured tradition by sealing blast doors, choking the fire of further air and also condemning another hundred men to suffocate as they beat upon the bulkheads.

On the bridge frantic crewmen struggled against the weight of G-forces as they tried to keep pace with the escalating calamities. Furion fiercely gripped onto a console and struggled to make himself heard over the bedlam, "The ship is bucking hard, she wants to break free for the Void!"  
"Hold her steady!" roared Toran grasping the dais rail with both hands, "Keep her running straight and true!"

Chaplain Wrethan stood free on the dais in defiance of all the troubles around him, as steady and unperturbed as rock in an ocean storm, yet he shouted, "We could divert the reserve power to manoeuvring thrusters."  
"Not yet, were going to need it." Toran barked without looking round, "This ship has a fine spirit, she will not forsake her crew in their hour of need!"

The ship shook harder and harder until it felt like it would tear itself apart and every man on the bridge clung on for dear life as his world turned into a juddering nauseating vision of fiery hell. An ancient mural of the Chapter's first victory shattered, scything razor sharp fragments into the packed control pews, killing several servitors and one officer who took a shard through the larynx. Then suddenly and without warning the terrible vibration abated and the normal sounds of ship functions filled the bridge. The light returned to its usual state, leaving bewildered men looking around in disbelief.

"What just happened?" asked Novak letting go of a marble column as the shaking died away.  
Furion looked up at his Sergeant in amazement and explained, "Toran built up enough speed to skip us off the atmosphere like a stone across flat water."  
"Status of the Ork Escorts?" asked Chaplain Wrethan sternly, bringing their attention back to the still lingering threat.

Furion bent over a dead Servitor to peer at an auspex screen then stated, "Those junkheaps are unable to match our manoeuvre and they lumber behind us. Their velocity is too slow to intercept us before we break orbit."  
"Report location of Kill Kroozers," commanded Toran in a steady tone of voice.

"Directly in our path Brother-Sergeant and closing damn fast," Furion said without looking up, then a note of alarm entered his voice, "Power spike detected! Ork Weapons are hot and locking on. Our shields are down and we have sixty seconds until we enter range!"  
Toran turned to gaze at the Hololith and fixed his eyes upon the Orks as he commanded, "Direct every drop of reserve power into the main drives. Helm set for maximum acceleration: All Ahead Full."

Then he proclaimed for all to hear, "Give me Ramming Speed!"


	3. Chapter 3

**Serrati Stellas Chapter 3**

Everybody knew Orks could not shoot straight, since the first human explorers first met first greenskins it had been known that they simply sprayed ordnance randomly and hoped to hit something. It was taught to children at their mothers' knee and repeated to Guardsmen on their first day of basic, it was a universally accepted fact and it was also utterly wrong. Space is vast beyond the ability of the human mind to encompass, mankind tried to tame it with charts and Warp Routes and Navigators but the deep dark of space was beyond any such feeble attempts to master. Starships commonly fought at distances of tens of thousands of kilometres, shooting at targets smaller than grains of sand and even Orks needed targeting solutions to hit anything.

Aboard the Kill Kroozers, Mekboyz kicked Grots to do strange tasks and pounded upon Logic engines with spanners until somehow they vomited out targeting algorithms. Across the bows of the ships fat guns were lined up and huge shells were levered into place with crude rods and brute strength. In one gun several Grots were trapped on the wrong side and locked into the barrel, while their overseers laughed to hear their pathetic wails echoing through.

Their target was closing rapidly, a mobile fortress of flying buttresses and void hardened armour. The Manifest Destiny was sailing alone in the void and it was utterly helpless before them. Even closing at an incredible pace the strike cruiser was still barely bigger than a speck against the planetoid behind and the gunz were aimed with careful skill, that no human would credit an Ork with. Gunners fretted and picked their noses as they waited impatiently, yet some primal instinct held their hands back from the firing pins: then the moment was right.

The bows of the Kroozers lit up with a crescendo of light, Heavy Gunz and Mega Shootas hurling shells into the vacuum, rokkets firing off in salvoes while Zzap canons burped rays of green energy. The void was filled with destructive power, the onslaught so thick a man could walk across it and it flew through space like a tidal wave of death. However at the exact moment the Orks fired the Manifest Destiny surged forward, soaring on a comet tail of plasma. The ship's velocity radically changed and it no longer occupied the same position the Orks had fired at. With the targeting now useless the vast majority of the destructive barrage sailed past the Manifest Destiny, barely a handful of shells and Rokkets impacting on the hull. They blew deep impact craters into the hull but this vessel had been built for war and she weathered the punishment even as she dived onwards. Before the Orks could reload the Manifest Destiny was hurtling through their formation. One Kill Kroozer was directly in its path and the Strike Cruiser bore down upon the vast monstrosity, revealing a fanged metalic jaw emblazoned across its prow.

On the Manifest Destiny's bridge the crew pounded consoles futilely or bowed their heads in sacred observance while Chaplain Wrethan boomed out prayers of deliverance. Only the three battle brothers stood resolute amidst the bedlam, setting an example for the mortal crew. Sergeant Toran was standing on the command Dais, eyes fixed upon the Hololith as he did his best to look confident. He knew he was taking an immense risk with the lives of all on board and yet he was certain that this course was their best hope of survival. Now he only had to communicate that confidence to the crew.

Standing just below the Dais Brother Furion said with cool resolve, "Your tactic worked Sergeant, but we have no helm control, logic engines predict impact in ten seconds."

Novak tried to match his brother's steadfastness but asked, "Should we not Brace?"

Toran kept his head held high and responded, "It is too late for that, hold fast and trust in the ships' spirit, she has been true thus far she will not fail us now."

Through the great armour-glass viewportal they could actually see the Kroozer with their naked eyes, they fixed their gazes and refused to blink in the face of the foe. So great were their relative velocities that one second it appeared the size of a penny, the next second it was the size of a house and on the third it was a mountain of plasteel falling upon their heads. Then they collided with the force of an atomonic bomb.

The Manifest Destiny's reinforced bow tore into the prow just above the Kroozers' serrated jaw, crushing and obliterating dozens of compartments. Metal was torn asunder, conduits shattered and hundreds of Ork were instantly liquefied amongst the compressed debris as the Manifest Destiny tore onwards. Hangers and magazines and galleries were ripped apart, the friction generating such heat that Grots were instantly vaporised to leave flash shadows etched into walls. On and on the bow tore, ripping through bizarre machines, workshops and barracks, leaving nothing but compressed wreckage in its wake.

A great gouge was ripped right down the length of the Kroozers' spine but the Manifest Destiny did not escape unharmed herself. The ventral hull was torn open end to end, venting chambers into space and hundreds of crewmen were blown out into hard vacuum. One man managed to hold onto a girder to prevent being blown out but was left gaping like a fish as he suffocated in the vacuum. Astrogation blisters, magazines and machine workshops were exposed to the freezing cold of space, leaving a grizzly scene of men frozen at their stations. The great keel of the Manifest Destiny was torn off and was left sticking out of the Kroozer like some great fin on an ocean predator as the Strike Cruiser tore free and sailed on into the void.

Three seconds had passed since first impact, just three.

The Manifest Destiny hurtled past, inertia carrying it far past the Orks in a heartbeat. Trailing fire the Strike Cruiser soared off into open space, leaving the Kroozer foundering into its wake; its spine ripped open to spill green bodies into the void. With oxygen and fire cascading out of every conduit a series of eruptions tore through the Kroozer, exploding compartment after compartment and killing all in its path. Fires spread everywhere, consuming everything they touched and grower ever fiercer. Then the explosions surged into the Enginarium and melted every regulator, magnetic bottle and cooling device, destroying the containment fields on the reactors. A single second later incandescent fury ripped through the Kroozer and it blew apart as a star formed in its heart.

Clouds of radiation and wreckage engulfed near space, swamping the other Kroozer, who was desperately trying to turn to give chase. It was futile anyway, no manoeuvre was more time consuming in space than directly reversing direction and the Manifest Destiny was already moving off into deep space, beyond their top acceleration. Massive sections of the dead Kroozer slammed into its twin, tearing fearsome wounds into the hull and crippling its ability to turn. The Orks fired off one more volley into the void but it was just empty spite and nothing could touch the Strike Cruiser as it rocketed out of range.

The Manifest Destiny plunged into the deep void, thrusters desperately firing as they tried to restore helm control. On the bridge Toran was holding onto the command Dais' rail as the crew fought to restore critical systems breached and casualties are heavy. We have lost contact with decks one-forty through one-sixty-five and we are bleeding plasma and oxygen from ruptured conduits. The Enginseers report they must perform the Rites of Slumber upon reactors two and five before they explode!"

Torna fought to keep a grimace off his face, that was bad news, yet he summoned his resolve and stated for the crew's benefit, "The Manifest Destiny's heart is tenacious. As long as she can give us some manoeuvring capability then inertia will carry us out of orbit."

Suddenly Wrethan stamped forwards and opened a private channel to the Sergeant so the crew could not hear him as he spat, "Disengage?! Blood has been shed and the enemy is reeling we must turn and finish them off!"

Toran turned face to face with the Chaplain and replied, "With all due respect Father, we have taken heavy damage ourselves, it will take time to repair the critical systems. We are still heavily outgunned by that Kroozer and have Ork escorts burning hard to close on our stern. Without a battle company aboard, we cannot defeat them in a conventional naval engagement."

"You spurn the glory of a noble death? snarled Wrethan his voice loaded with menace "Could it be that you Know Fear?"

Yet Toran wasn't about to be browbeaten or seconded guessed on his first command and rallied, "We shall continue the battle, but not this way."

Wrethan snarled and stepped forwards raising Redeeming-Flame between them, "The God-Emperor commanded Suffer not the Alien to Live!"

Toran felt like a raw-scout novice to be addressed so by a Chaplain but he was surprised by the steadfastness of his own voice as he replied, "I understand my duty Father; our purpose is not only to fight the enemies of the Emperor but to destroy them. To turn about now gives the Orks all the advantages, to meet brutality with brutality only plays to their strengths. Yet there are other strategies to which they are vulnerable, it is written in the Codex Astartes Volume I, Chapter IV, Verse XVI: So in war, the way is to avoid what is strong and strike at what is weak."

Wrethan stood staring at Toran for long seconds, his thoughts impenetrable, then he lowered his Crozius and said, "Indeed, Roboute Guilliman himself wrote that an imprecise strike is a wasted strike. Once more I must commend your keen grasp of the Codex Astartes; you may enact your strategy."

With that, Wrethan stepped back and said openly so the whole crew could hear, "Carry on, Sergeant."

Filled with relief Toran turned to face the bridge crew and ordered, "Lay in a Translunar trajectory and signal Venator squadron to rendezvous on the far side of this planets' satellite moon. We shall reunite with the rest of IXth Squad and together teach these Orks that one does not challenge the Emperor's Space Marines and expect to live!"


	4. Chapter 4

**Serrati Stellas Chapter 4**

"I'm not sure I can do this," Toran said aloud. The words hung in the small ante-chamber, filling them with his uncertainty. It sounded odd to say that out loud but it was true, he couldn't lie about this, not with everything on the line. Furion looked at him with a raised eyebrow and asked, "Do what?"

Toran looked at his oldest friend, the larger Brother crammed into the alcove with him. Furion had always been a sage counsellor to Toran, pushing him to improve himself which was why the Sergeant had asked to speak to him alone. Furion was wise and understanding, the only one Toran could talk to without undermining his position as a Squad Sergeant. Toran drew in a breath and said, "I have to go in there and order the squad about, lay down our plans of battle and tell them what to do."

Furion looked amused as he said, "You didn't have any problem doing that on the bridge, your manoeuvre was brilliant and you showed utter confidence in carry it out."

Toran sighed, "That was different, in the heat of the moment it was so obvious, the path was clear and direct. But this, I wasn't expecting this."

Furion shook his head and said, "It's exactly the same, you are simply not accustomed to being the leader."

Toran lowered his eyes and said, "I must sound stupid, a Space Marine getting a case of nerves. I've faced Xenos and rebels and Traitor Marines with complete confidence and certainty of action, but I was always following someone else's plan. It wasn't my responsibility if things went wrong."

Furion nodded in understanding and said, "You doubt your ability, but you must rise above such things. Bombs and knives and bullets hold no fear for any of us, but fear of failure, that runs deeper. Yet you cannot allow it to hold you back, you must face this fear as you have any other. Treat this a challenge, no different to those you overcame as an aspirant and you shall ascend in ways you never thought possible."

Toran glanced out the door and said, "But some of our new Brothers have twice my experience, how can I tell them what to do?"

Furion explained, "Don't try."

"Excuse me?" Toran queried in confusion.

Furion explained, "The greatest skill of any leader is to listen. You have a wealth of experience and keen minds in there, do not try to quash their insight: use it. Lay out the problem and let them develop a strategy, you might find they surprise you."

Toran frowned as he said, "There won't be time for that in combat."

Furion agreed, "No, then you must be decisive but right now you have the time to strategize. This is a strategy session, a place for Theoreticals to be proposed, tested for weakness and improved. You have weapons you are not using and assets laying in the dust, do not hesitate to use them."

Toran nodded and asked, "Any other advice?"

Furion thought about it then said, "A bit of theatre never hurts, now come on, they are waiting."

With that the pair left the ante-chamber and strode into the Chapel. It wasn't the largest one on the ship, that was reserved for the full Company, but it was sufficient for their purposes. The Chapel had an altar and smoking braziers on the walls, with marble columns running down both sides. There were no pews, Space Marines had no use for sitting about so instead the floor had inscriptions from the sacred litanies. A cyber-cherub flitted about overhead, dragging a smoking censer in its chubby hands and the far wall was a stained glass window. It was lit from behind by lumen orbs and in its glass panels was a rendition of Charael, the Storm Herald's first High Chaplain and Visionary, receiving his first prophetic revelation from the Divine Emperor.

Standing in a loose group were the rest of IXth squad, all waiting for their briefing. Toran eyed them as he entered and assessed their qualities. Novak was talking with Persion, the squad's communication specialist. He was an old friend, one with rather a casual attitude to vox protocols that made him both a remarkable signal cracker and constant annoyance to the Chaplains responsible for discipline. He and Novak had struck up an odd friendship, seemingly delighting in poking each other and trading quips.

The others Toran barely knew, there was Brother Rickard, as straight and narrow as any Astartes could hope to be and with an absolute, dogged adherent to the Codex Astartes. There was Jediah, a worryingly bloodthirsty Marine with a fervent enjoyment of killing that disturbed Toran. Then there was Ophelian, an older Marine who seemed to think he knew everything, his snide attitude could be a problem if not addressed. Lastly there was Daite, a strange Marine indeed for he was blessed, or better described as afflicted with prophetic visions. The Storm Herald's gene-seed hid a flaw, a tendency to experience flashes of intuition and deductive reasoning that bordered on prescient. Nobody understood it, it wasn't psychic in nature, but the Apothecaries sometimes muttered about a defective Catalapsean Node. In any case only one or two Brothers in a generation suffered the flaw and those so blessed were considered to be receiving messages from the Emperor himself.

Across from them all was Chaplain Wrethan, looking stern as he surveyed the scene. Yet he seemed content to hold back and let Toran assume the role of leader. Toran felt all eyes turn to him but he kept his face still as he marched to the front of the Chapel and declared, "Brothers, it is good to see you again. You all know what has occurred during the battle with the Orks so let skip the review and move straight on to what we shall do about the Greenskins."

Ophelian spoke up then to say, "Are you suggesting one squad should attack an Ork Kroozer unsupported?

Rickard added his voice to protest, "Sergeant, this action is not supported by the Codex Astartes. The Primarch decreed such a course of action demands no less than a full Company."

Toran had anticipated such a response and replied, "Many know that part of the Codex and we do not have a Company at our backs, we are only nine, so we must consider the less well known teachings."

"I do not follow," replied Rickard sounding confused.

Toran stated, "Codex Volume XIV, Chapter IV, Verse XXVII…"

Rickard replied from memory, "Water shapes its course according to the nature of the ground over which it flows: the soldier works out his victory in relation to the foe whom he is facing."

"Exactly," Toran declared, "When we passed by the Kroozer we were able to take detailed Auspex sweeps of the interior, we know their ship inside and out. See for yourselves."

At that a Hololithic image sprang into life, a detailed schematic of the Kroozer. Everybody peered at it, examining the structure and analysing the weak points. Transhuman minds were built for threat deconstruction and it mere took moments for them to assess the target. Ophelian noted, "The bridge and Enginarium are too heavily defended for a single squad to take."

Rickard concurred, "The magazines are distressingly well armoured, we can't set off a chain reaction with the munitions."

Jediah spoke up then to say, "We could try killing them all."

"No," Novak demurred, "The odds are too steep, even we can't beat a foe that outnumbers us ten thousand to one."

Suddenly Wrethan interjected, "Do not be so limited in your thinking, remember your teachings, every enemy has a weak point. Find it and give us your Theoreticals."

Eyes returned to the Hololith and then Novak exclaimed, "There! Look at the primary power Conduit, the entire drive sections' energy supply is running through one junction."

Toran was surprised that it was Novak who saw it, despite his loose tongue the youth was not as stupid as he pretended to be. The Sergeant was glad his kin had spotted the same thing he had and he declared, "Yes it is. Recklessly exposed, dangerously unstable and very, very Ork; rupture that and the entire ship will be left adrift."

Furion rubbed his chin and said, "That will cripple them but not kill them."

Toran nodded and pointed to a large cylinder on the dorsal spine, "This here is an isolated manoeuvring thruster."

Ophelian mused, "If we could trigger a burn for two minutes the Kroozer will be pushed into a decaying orbit. Without power they won't be able to abort re-entry."

Toran was heartened that his squad shared his plan and he realised that by working through the problem as a team they had come together as a unit. Their confidence in the plan would be far greater than had he simply laid it out as an order. He made a note to remember that in future as he declared, "We can make a stealth approach in a single Thunderhawk and board without being noticed. This will require two Combat Squads: Furion, Ophelian, Novak and Rickard will come with me to attack the conduit, Persion, Jediah and Daite will go with Chaplain Wrethan to secure the thruster. Wrethan's team will hit first then the instant the Kroozer is committed to its course we blow the conduit and leave the Xeno scum to die in re-entry."

Heads nodded all around as the plan crystallised and Furion said, "Lead on Sergeant, we're with you."

Toran lifted his head high and declared, "Then let us waste no time Brothers, there are Orks out there that need killing!"


	5. Chapter 5

**Serrati Stellas Chapter 5**

Around the nameless planetoid orbital space was a swirling morass of radiation, debris and wreckage floating everywhere. Frozen green bodies spun weightlessly and broke apart as they crashed into shards of metal the size of trucks and flashes of light revealed vented oxygen igniting. Amid the devastation sat an ugly leviathan, brooding and dark with gunz protruding from its bow like a row of broken teeth. It sat blind and uncaring as its crew worked feverishly to repair the great gouges torn in its side, labouring to make good it's wounds.

Approaching through the morass of sensor-blinding debris was a single Thunderhawk, the Winged Fury. It drifted powerlessly, depending upon pure inertia to carry it forward lest an energy burst betray its location. Only the smallest puffs of gas from its manoeuvring thrusters announced the presence of life, tiny adjustments to avoid collisions and keep it on course. In complete silence the gunship drifted nearer to the gigantic Kroozer, like a mosquito approaching a herd beast and the poison it carried was just as deadly.

As it closed the great gouges were visible to the naked eye along with swarms of Mekboyz, crawling through the torn hull, welding and cutting with glee in their bulky vacuum suits. Carefully the Winged Fury fired a small burst of lateral thrust that carried it away from the activity, towards the rear section which sat deserted and exposed. The gunships' approach appeared slow from a distance but as it closed its true speed was revealed, the Kroozer swelling in size to become a mountain of metal and ugly welds.

The Thunderhawk dived in at full speed, leaving braking thrust until the last second, then it sharply decelerated mere metres from the hull. At the last possible moment landing claws extended and the Thunderhawk spun in the void to make contact, the impact reverberating through the tiny hull with force enough to break spines and shatter mortal bones, but then this crew were far from mortal. In total silence nine Transhuman warriors gathered around the ventral docking collar, setting to work with fusion torches that created bright flares of light in the void.

After a few minutes there was a sudden rushing of wind and the return of sound announcing that they had cut through the hull and the pressure was equalising. Without speaking the Storm Heralds dropped through the hole one by one, each twisting and turning to cope with the awkward return of gravity. Once inside they instantly fanned out, with bolters raised to secure the compartment. In a minute they had swept the area and found themselves in a deserted and mouldy space, perhaps an unused storeroom or perhaps just a space left and forgotten about by the careless Mekboyz.

Sergeant Toran stood straight and took in IXth squad then he spoke for the first time saying, "You all know your objectives, combat squad one: Daite, Jediah and Persion with Chaplain Wrethan. Combat squad two: Furion, Ophelian, Novak and Rickard with me. Be fast and be deadly: We are the Emperor's Storm."

"We are his Wrath" replied the squad solemnly with the time honoured battle cry of the Storm Heralds Chapter, then half of them turned and followed the black clad Chaplain out of the door and set off at a sprint.

The remaining Storm Heralds formed up behind their Sergeant and took off in another direction, moving through the corridors swiftly and stealthily. Their dark blue and grey armour lent itself well to the shadows but these were no Sons of Corax and knew it was only a matter of time until they were detected, so speed was everything. Toran led them through the rusty and jagged corridors, avoiding parties of wandering Ork Boyz, taking smaller corridors and rerouting where necessary. Here the Kroozers' ramshackle nature worked to their advantage, countless holes in walls and mismatched hatches making progress easy.

Toran was reassured by their swift progress yet in his hearts he struggled with an unaccustomed anxiety. This plan was dangerous and so much could go wrong, it was a huge risk they were taking. Space Marines were not averse to risk and Toran had laid his life on the line so many times but this was different. This was his first operation as a leader and the lives of his Brothers were in his hands. What if he had made a mistake, what if he was leading them to their deaths? Toran wished he could forget these questions but he could not, all he could do was keep putting one foot in front of the other and trust they could cope with whatever they encountered.

Suddenly Novak, who was on point stopped, peering around a junction with his hand raised. Everybody paused as he waved Toran forward, the Sergeant crept up and peered around it himself, seeing five Orks further ahead. They were sitting over a crate, drinking and playing some game with the finger bones of Grots. Toran eased back and silently waved Ophelian forwards, they traded places and he gently leant out peering along the darkened corridor. Ophelian brought up his stalker pattern bolt rifle, sliding in a magazine of sniper rounds. He lined up his shot with infinite care, then there was a series of soft gasps of escaping air and he straightened up saying, "Easy shot".

Toran breathed out in relief and said, "Well done Brother."

Ophelian looked back and stated, "Five for five, beats your record from Glaeba."

Toran stepped past him saying, "I seem to recall at Glaeba they were shooting back at us."

Ophelian followed him replying, "Yes… but I make it look easy."

With the threat eliminated the squad pressed on and there were no more obstacles until they came to the double hatch of a large chamber. Here they paused, settling down in the shadows. Just beyond the hatches they could see the majority of the room and it was filled with a half-dozen Mekboyz and hordes of Grots yelling and beating strange objects with hammers and wrenches. The vast majority of the space was taken up with a huge pipeline that was as wide as two Land Raiders laid end to end. The squad slunk back into the shadows and waited for the sign to attack, if they were discovered now the mission would fail but all they could do was wait. Toran suppressed the urge to vox Chaplain Wrethan's team, he could not afford to distract them from their own mission.

He saw Novak clenching the blade of his Rapier and Ophelian, stroking the barrel of his bolter, soothing its Machine Spirit. Rickard seemed a statue carved from Ceramite and Furion looked stalwart as ever, Toran could only hope he looked as calm for he certainly didn't feel that way. For an instant he wished he was still a line Brother, a Sergeant's responsibilities were heavier than he had ever dreamed but he rejected the notion. He had been entrusted with a sacred charge and the Chapter would not have bestowed the rank if they did not think he was ready, it was only his own nerves that were troubling him. He had to be confident in his abilities and decisions, more than his own life depended upon it.

He was snapped out his musings by a series of clicks on the vox, it was the signal from Chaplain Wrethan that they had secured their objective and would start the burn in sixty seconds. Instantly Toran waved Furion forwards and the Veteran stepped up, taking out a pair of Frag grenades from his kit bag, strong enough to hurt the Orks but not to breach the Conduit. He passed one to Toran and together they lined up, they nodded to each other then pulled the pins and let fly. The reaction was almost comical, the grenades rolled into the chamber and a half-dozen Orks turned to look at them with jaws gaping in disbelief, then they exploded. In a burst of light and noise shrapnel scythed into green flesh and embedded in thick skin while The concussive bangs and shrapnel tore the Grots to shreds. The bedlam was intense but the Mekboys were proper Orks and not one of them was killed.

"Charge!" Toran shouted, taking advantage of the confusion as he led IXth squad to the hatch. As they ran they levelled their bolters and opened fire and the flurry of bolt rounds smashed into the Mekboys, blowing off limbs and spilling guts everywhere. Toran lined up his bolt pistol and put three rounds into a Mekboyz' chest, it staggered back for a second before they detonated and blew it apart in a fountain of sickening gore.

The Orks had taken casualties but they rallied swiftly and let fly with sluggas and shootas. The flurry of rounds smashed into the area around the IXth squad were unyielding, trusting in their ancient armour to hold firm as they blasted the greenskins apart one by one. Concentrated bursts of bolt-rounds tore each Ork apart, reducing them to broken heaps and in seconds the number of foes shrank to one. Yet the final Mek-boy was clad in Mega-armour and it wasn't firing but instead grabbing something from a pile of junk. Torna fired a round at it but the bolt spranged off its thick armour, then it turned around and revealed a Big Shoota. "Evade!" Toran shouted as he threw himself aside but even as he did so the Ork levelled the cumbersome weapon and opened up with a tongue of fire a metre long.

Toran's armour registered bullets impacting all over him but thankfully none penetrated, but behind there was a sound ceramite cracking. He could not spare the time to turn to look as he brought his bolt pistol around and fired a burst at the Ork, but the rounds again deflected off its thick armour. The Sergeant snarled in disgust, filled with sacred loathing at the Xeno, everything about it offended him from its crude armour to its obscene mockery of the human form and he felt revulsion at its refusal to simply lie down and die.

The Mekboy roared with laughter and dragged the juddering weapon round to target the Sergeant. Toran gripped his chainsword tighter and prepared to charge into melee range but a heartbeat before he could throw himself forward a single bolt-round caught the Mekboy on the forehead. The bolt effortlessly penetrated the thick bone of its skull, then it detonated, blowing its brains everywhere. Toran's jaw fell at the unexpected kill-shot and in the corner of his eye he saw Rickard sliding the action on his bolter, satisfied with a clean kill.

Toran nodded to Rickard in gratitude and waved Furion forward to plant the charges, yet to his surprise there was no reaction. Toran frowned in confusion but then his eye registered a blinking amber rune in his vision, the life readings of his combat squad. Aghast Toran spun on his heel to look behind and he was shocked by what he beheld. Slumped on the floor Ophelian lay with his back to a bulkhead, blood pooling in his lap from the dozen gunshot wounds that had cracked through his belly armour.


	6. Chapter 6

**Serrati Steallas Chapter 6**

Through the jagged and mismatched corridors IXth squad ran, sectioning and clearing each corner and junction with practiced ease, advancing in waves to cover each other. They raced to get away from the roaring inferno behind them, the ruptured power conduit spewing green lightning that burned all it touched. They could feel the ship quivering with the first caresses of atmosphere and knew time was against them. At the rear of the squad Novak supported Ophelian under one arm, helping him to limp along as he clutched one hand to the mass of Larraman cells scabbing over his abdomen. A mortal man would have been doubled over screaming in agony but Ophelian was an Astartes and his armour dispensed pain balms whilst he muttered mantras from his hypno-indoctrination all the while.

Ophelian's gen-enhanced physiology was trying to piece him back together but he had a dozen barbed lumps of lead in his guts, tearing him apart as fast as his artificial organs could repair him. The squad had no apothecary to tend to his wounds and they could not afford the time to stop and dig the bullets out, so he had no choice but to endure the torment and keep marching. Toran led them on but inside he was berating himself, it had been his orders that had caused Ophelain to be wounded, it was his responsibility to fulfil the mission and keep his Marines alive and he was failing.

Toran cleared what looked like a bunkroom and waved Rickard forwards to the next, all the while recalling their extraction route in his eidetic memory and comparing it to a timed countdown in his visor: the remaining time until the Winged Fury would disengage. The time was uncomfortably close but his transhuman mind calculated they would just make it, as long as there were no delays. They came up to a hatch but stopped sharply for Rickard was peering through it and was holding up a clenched fist, using hand signals he gestured, 'Enemy ahead, 20+'. Toran swore under his breath, there were too many to take in hand to hand combat, especially with a Brother down and they had no time for a protracted firefight. The squad stepped back into the room and over closed vox assessed the situation. Novak was the first to ask, "Do we have enough time to go around?"

"Not at the speed we are moving" replied Rickard, saying what they all knew to be true.

"Yes… yes you do" spoke up Ophelian through gritted teeth, "You can still make it if someone stays here to distract the Orks."

"Ophelian you can't…" said Toran in denial, unwilling to leave his Brother.

"Go you idiots," Ophelian snarled brushing off the sentiment, "A good death is its own reward."

Toran wanted to tell his Brother that they would never abandon him… but he couldn't. He had seen battles where good Marines had been sacrificed to give their kin a chance at life but he himself had never given such an order and despite all his hypno-conditioning it tore at his heart. Yet as the sergeant he knew his duty was to the whole squad, he could not risk everybody's lives for the sake of one man. Ultimately they were all Astartes and everyone one of them knew death in battle was their destiny, glorious or miserable, each one was ready to give his life for his Emperor and his brothers.

Toran opened his mouth to spout some vague platitudes about dying with honour but didn't get the chance for suddenly through the hatch ran three Orks. The Orks seemed stunned to see them and wasted a second gaping in disbelief; but the Marines were not so handicapped. Reacting on muscle memory Toran revved his chainsword and lunged forwards, plunging the blade into a greenskin's chest. Gore exploded out of its back while the rest of the squad leapt forwards and finished off the other two. Regrettably it was too late, the sound of combat had attracted the rest of the Orks and they charged forward, waving choppas in the air and shouting "Waaagh!"

IXth squad was beset as the Xenos poured through the hatch. Toran shot the first through hatch with his bolt pistol but then was overwhelmed by hacking and stabbing lunatics. He fended off a crude cleava and ripped his chainsword through the guts of the Ork holding it, but it did not seem to notice that its entrails were pouring onto the ground and tried to grab him around the throat. Countless hours of training compelled Toran to instinctively step forward rather than back, breaking its grip and he smashed his helmet into its face with force enough to shatter teeth. The Ork staggered and in the moment of respite he brought his chainsword up to hack its arms off, then he took its head with a buzzing strike. Before he could turn another Ork grappled him in a bear hug, trapping his chainsword arm to his side and lifting him off the floor. Toran wasted no time kicking or squirming but brought his free hand up over his shoulder, placing his bolt pistol right against the brute's forehead. A twitch of his finger and the Orks' head exploded, spraying gore over everywhere.

Toran landed on his feet and saw the squad was surrounded and outnumbered four to one. Furion stabbed one Ork in the neck, even as he was fending off five more Orks that battered and scored his thick armour. He was killing as fast as he could but the tide would soon overwhelm him. Meanwhile Rickard was being clubbed to the ground, a heaving mob piling upon him and Ophelian was prone on the floor, trying to hold back an Ork that was wrestling to shove a serrated knife into his eye.

Before Toran could act six more Orks charged at him, they were clumsy crude brutes that constantly got in each other's' way but still there were too many for him to take alone. Toran's heart burned with loathing for the filthy brutes, these creatures insulted the purity of the human form and his soul cried out to exterminate them. Yet Toran also realised the odds were too great, he could not take on six at once and the fight was turning against the squad: they could not win,

But he knew that they could still die well, in the Emperor name.

Yet even as Toran prepared to go down fighting Novak suddenly leapt past him. The young Storm Herald was a whirlwind of death, lashing out with his rapier to hack and cut at green flesh. His flashing blade danced past the Orks' crude parries, chopping the green skins like meat on a butcher's block. Toran had seen the rookie duelling in the training cages and judged him a prodigy with a blade, but now he realised the youth had actually been holding back.

There were none of Novak's typical flourishes or showboating, his movements were exact and direct, stunningly efficient and utterly deadly. He loped off limbs, spilled guts and tore out throats with his every gesture. He was death incarnate, he was perfection with a blade and in a matter of seconds he had six Ork corpses steaming before him on the deck. The rest of the squad rallied at the sight, throwing themselves forwards to hack and stab with their blades. Toran joined them, lunging with his chainsword to tear through a green chest, then he pulled back and swung wide, decapitating another Ork who was trying to stab Furion in the neck. The last Ork hacked with a rusty cleava, trying to batter down Rickard who was unimaginatively parrying in prescribed Codex style. Toran however simply levelled his bolt pistol and put three rounds in its back, not very honourable, but then this was no duelling pit.

Silence fell and the squad looked about in shock at their unexpected victory, Toran glanced at the timer in his visor display and then swore under his breath, for the Thunderhawk would evacuate soon. In a second his mind recalculated the route, it was theoretically possible to make it to the gunship but it would be perilously close. He was determined to save Ophelian, but he refused to risk anyone else's life to do so.

He ran and grabbed Ophelian under one arm heaving him up and yelling to the rest of the squad, "Go ahead, we can't afford any more delays. Get to the Thunderhawk, if we do not make it in time do not wait for us. GO!"

The squad obeyed the order without question and ran ahead while Toran and Ophelian limped on step by step. Toran instantly knew they were moving too slowly but suddenly Ophelian's other arm was lifted up and he was practically picked off the floor. Toran looked over and saw Furion running alongside, effectively doubling their pace. Toran was glad of his presence but said, "I thought I ordered you to leave us."

Yet Furion merely tapped theatrically on the side of his helm and said, "Sorry Sergeant, autosenses took a knock in the fight. I can't hear a word you're saying."

Toran gritted his teeth but he knew he could not make it on his own so the two of them practically carried Ophelian down the corridor at a full run. They passed a variety of lone Ork corpses on the way, evidence that Rickard and Novak had already been through and cleared a route for them. Moving as fast as they could they charged down the corridors, racing against the clock, fully aware that the Kroozer was starting to vibrate in the unwelcome caress of friction. Toran watched the time racing down in his visor and knew they were at the edge of their hope. His hearts burned with exertion, for a Space Marine was no paltry weight but he forced his aching muscles into action, pressing ever harder for the last morsel of speed. Together he and Furion pushed themselves to the limit, forsaking all caution and knowing if they ran into another party of Orks it would the end, speed as their only hope now.

The clock marched inexorably downwards, then just when Toran was convinced they would not make it they finally burst out into the empty chamber they had first emerged into. The hole was right where they had left it and through the gap they could the welcome interior of the Winged Fury. They ran to the hole in the wall and practically threw Ophelian into it. Then they dived in head first themselves, feeling the curious twisting sensation of the Kroozers' gravity disappearing to leave them in zero-gee. They pulled themselves into the gunship and mag-locked their boots to the deck and Toran saw Chaplain Wrethan's team were already aboard, so slammed his fist on a panel and the boarding tunnel whirred shut.

Instantly the Thunderhawk broke free from the hull in a spray of ice crystals, burning hard to put as much distance as possible between itself and wrecked Kroozer. It soared through the fiery contrails of re-entry, clawing to escape as the Ork vessel plummeted into the atmosphere. Fragments broke off the Kroozer as flames seared across its hull, melting the gunz away like rotten teeth and a thick stream of smoke trailed behind it, turning it into an ugly shooting star as it fell helplessly towards the planetoid. The trail of smoke sank into the sooty atmosphere as the Thunderhawk soared free, climbing for the stars with every last bit of thrust.

Toran leaned back on a bulkhead and closed his eyes, feeling every moment of the last few hours wearing at him. He breathed deeply in relief but his moment of respite was short live for Novak suddenly called from the cockpit "Sergeant, we have a problem!" Toran was up instantly, clomping his mag-boots on the floor as he forced his way into the cockpit. He stuck his head inside but what he saw shocked him, while they had been infiltrating the Kroozer the Orks had repositioned their fleet. In all directions he could see vast metallic faces bristling with gunz, all pointed straight at them. The Thunderhawk was surrounded by six Ork escort Frigates, each one loaded and ready to fire.


	7. Chapter 7

**Serrati Stella Chapter 7**

Across the dirty face of the planetoid trailed a shooting star, the dying Kill Kroozer tumbling in the thickening air as it fell. The Greenskins on-board roared defiantly at their fate but there was nothing they could do against the doom coming for them. The burning wreck tore through the clogged atmosphere like a stone thrown in a pond, large chunks breaking off as friction tore it apart.

High above the tiny speck of the Winged Fury twisted and turned in the dark, an infinitesimally small spark of life fighting to survive in an uncaring universe. It was surrounded on all sides by the towering cityscapes of Ork spaceships, pouring turret fire into the void, creating a deadly lattice of tracers and missile trails through which the gunship weaved and dodged. Though small, by star ship standards, each frigate eclipsed the gunship in every conceivable way and a single hit from any of them would obliterate it.

Aboard the Thunderhawk Toran clung to the hatch in the cockpit, just behind Novak and Rickard who occupied the pilots' positions. They fought with the controls, desperately trying to find an escape vector in the medley of streaming tracers. It was obvious that the chances of survival were beyond laughable but they remained Astartes and to lie down and die was not in their nature. So they fought on, despite knowing that it was utterly futile.

Nobody said anything in the cockpit, for there was nothing to say. Toran knew too well that Space Marines were fated to die battle, immortality was not their destiny. Instead they had something of far greater value, the chance to make a difference in the galaxy and die with purpose. In their hearts they knew they had achieved something of great significance this day, possibly averting an entire Waagh, so Toran took comfort in the knowledge that they would die victorious.

The interior of the Winged Fury was a spinning, nauseating nightmare of loops and spins as it flung itself randomly about. All Toran could do was hang on desperately and pray for a miracle, one he dare not articulate even to himself. As the Thunderhawk drew crazy patterns in the void Toran was filled with a growing awareness of something amiss: though the gunship danced madly through space none of the turret fire was coming near them. He tried to look out the viewportal and asked, "They are putting out enough flak to take down a squadron of Marauders, how can they be missing us?"

Rickard eased off the controls a tiny fraction and saw the Sergeant was right, though the frigates poured out fire in endless streams none of it was aimed in their direction; instead it was streaming off into apparently empty space. They stared into the vacuum and suddenly realised it was not so empty after all, for high above flecks of light glinted off incoming ordnance. Powering through the vacuum were six gigantic cylinders, riding tails of rocket exhaust, each one three times the size of the Thunderhawk and bulging with plasma warheads. They bore down with deadly intent for they were Imperial Naval Torpedoes and they were in the final stage of their attack run.

Novak practically leapt out of his seat and yelled excitedly, "Venator squadron, they bring the Emperor's judgement upon the foe!"

Yet Toran put one hand on his shoulder and pushed him down firmly saying, "Brace yourself young one, this is about to get rough."

A heartbeat later the torpedoes tore through the Ork formation, diving hard like hawks swooping upon their prey. The Greenskins' ramshackle vessels intensified their turret fire, throwing out waves of tracers into the void. A single torpedo was caught by the volley, catching it behind its warhead and prematurely triggering the detonation sequence. A brilliant ball of star-hot plasma erupted, followed by a wave of heat and radiation that engulfed another torpedo, frying its guidance system. This one spiralled off course harmlessly, its fury rendered impotent but the rest of the salvo tore onwards unscathed.

The two leading torpedoes smashed into the closest Ork escort, the initial charges blowing holes in the hull, into which the plasma cores were driven before igniting. Two tiny suns were born, tearing the frigate apart and reducing it to a flaming cloud of microscopic fragments. The blast wave spun the Winged Fury like a leaf in the wind and tossed it wildly off course, the Space Marines aboard reduced to clinging onto the hand rails as Novak and Rickard fought to stop the spin. All Toran could see were the blurred stars spinning outside the view portal, with the occasional flash of a metal hull sailing past.

Meanwhile the blast wave carried onwards pounding on the Ork ships like burning rain, their crude hulls were impervious but their shields were overwhelmed leaving them defenceless. The blast also disrupted the remaining Torpedoes and they drifted off course, machine spirits seeking targets all the while. One torpedo failed to find a target and sailed serenely through the formation and on into the endless night sky. But the last torpedo caught a lucky glancing blow on a frigate and detonated outside its hull, the blast not enough to disintegrate the ship but still enough to cripple its drive systems. It sank into a helpless drift, powerless and uncontrolled while its crew were condemned to an eternal frozen hell, as their orbit decayed over the next thousand years.

The Orks were reeling from the attack, desperately trying to get back in formation but it was too late for their doom was already upon them. Down the vertical axis an Adamantium titan entered the fight, gliding inexorably into combat range. The Winged Fury finally stabilised and Toran was startled to realise that he could see the intruder with his naked eyes, in space terms that was absolute point blank range. It was a sleek predator of deep space, with the speed and manoeuvrability of an escort yet the mass and armour of a Cruiser. Massive gun ports loomed open all along its sides and spine, gaping maws promising annihilation to all they saw. Every inch of it was a glorious declaration of mankind's ability to deliver death and destruction.

"It is the Manifest Destiny!" roared Novak in youthful exuberance.

"Look at her, she hungers for the fight!" shouted Rickard his brothers' excitement cracking his normally stoic demeanour.

As they watched the Manifest Destiny swung into battle like a shark diving into a school of minnows, the weapon batteries along her side gleaming with reflected starlight. Swiftly the strike cruiser cut across the bow of one escort, perfectly 'crossing the T' in a textbook naval attack. With a silent flash of incandescent fury the weapon batteries opened up heaving shells, rockets, las and plasma at the foe and at this range they could not miss. Shield less, the escort took every single shot into its hull, carving great rifts into the metal that gushed air and green bodies. On and on the onslaught came, carving deeper and deeper into the frigate and it seemed to writhe in agony as its metal face twisted and distorted in the inferno. Then it finally rolled over and died.

The other Ork ships were rallying, coming about and trying to get their Gunz aligned, but they had run out of time. Ponderously the titanic barrels of the Manifest Destiny's bombardment canons swung around and unleashed hell. Two massive plumes of fire spat out of her spine as a pair of massive shells knifed into the exposed underbellies of two escorts. Magma bombs were city killers, designed to obliterate whole urban centres in one shot, when they detonated the escorts just blew apart, smashed into a billion pieces of blackened metal.

Aboard the Thunderhawk the triumph of victory was infectious and from the troop bay rang the sounds of Chaplain Wrethan leading the Brothers in hymns of praise and gratitude to Him on Terra. In the cockpit itself they regarded the sleek predatory lines of the Strike Cruiser, they had all fought on its decks before but never had they been in a position to witness its destructive fury at such close range. Rickard broke a rare grin through his stoic veneer and declared, "In all my years I have never seen such a beautiful sight."

"A fine ship," agreed Toran unable to resist the heady rush of victory, "And bloodthirsty to boot!"

Toran watched as the crew of the last Ork escort panicked, turning their belly over and running hard to flee from the fight. But points of light announcing Venator squadron was on the chase, their loaded torpedo tubes promising the hunt would be short and bloody. Toran breathed a sigh of relief at their unexpected deliverance then turned to his Brothers and said "Enough naval gazing, lets back into the fight. Plot in course to dock with the Manifest Destiny and signal her bridge to prepare for planetary bombardment operations. Before we return to the Chapter we will first obliterate the Orks' ground installations and make sure this will world will never again threaten the Emperors domains. Be hearty Brothers, this is our squad's first real victory!"


	8. Chapter 8

**Serrati Stellas Chapter 8**

The chamber was small and bare, half of it little more than a metal cell with the meanest facilities for daily life. In one corner a stand held a suit of power armour, meticulously restored and blessed with sacred unguents. Beside it was a workbench with a disassembled bolter and a battered Chainsword, various tools lay around them, worn from repeated use and covered in fresh oils. The rest of the room was taken up with a pair of chairs and a functional desk, which was piled high with data slates and reports.

Toran was sitting at that desk, sorting through the various reports. He was wearing a simple woven tabard that left his arms exposed, revealing a lifetime's worth of scars. He sat rubbing his chin, glaring at a report of the squads' consumption of ration bars during deployment, but all he could think was to wonder why in the name of sanity it required a Sergeant's authority to sign such minutiae.

With an exasperated sigh he threw the data-slate back to the desk and stretched his arms over his head tensing his gene-enhanced muscles one by one. He rolled his head and looked at the wall for a moment, wishing for a viewportal, but knew it was a ridiculous notion. The Astartes' barracks was located deep within the ship where enemy fire could not reach, only the gene-seed vault was more secure.

Toran thought longingly about taking his bolter to the firing ranges and letting off some of his frustration but sadly dropped the idea. His duty was clear and he diligently picked up the next slate, sighing when he saw it was a six hundred and fifty-five page report on repair estimates when they returned to the Chapters' shipyards around Lujan II.

Before he could start reading it he was interrupted by a chime and he gladly leapt to his feet, practically racing to the door. The door opened at his touch to reveal the bulky silhouette of Chaplain Wrethan, standing in black robes of office with his Rosarius draped around his neck. Many mortals would have been surprised to see him without armour but despite what the average citizen thought Space Marines did not live in their plate; power armour needed repair and maintenance as much as the Astartes themselves did.

Toran was surprised to see him at this hour but bowed in respect and waved him in; the Chaplain surveyed the chamber then sat down besides the desk without being invited. Toran was surprised, for this was unusually informal for the Chaplain, in fact it was rare to see him without his trademark skull helm. The sergeant studied his visitor and was surprised to realise that away from battle Wrethan's face was calm and relaxed, missing its customary snarl of hatred.

He sat down and asked, "Father Wrethan, to what do I owe the honour of this visit?"

The Chaplain looked at him with a cool gaze and then said, "We have been in the Immaterium for a week and the Navigator estimates the journey will take three more weeks, depending on the Warp's tides. Ophelian is fully healed and your squad drills diligently in the training arenas every day, yet you have not been seen."

Toran gestured to take in the piles of reports across his desk and said, "Duty calls Father, as Commander of this mission, I have to read and authorise every single thing that happens in this flotilla."

Wrethan sighed in disappointment and explained, "Your mind is like a blade, it must be kept sharp and honed, not blunted through neglect. You are still acting like an Initiate, thinking you must do every individual task yourself, but as a commander you must learn how to delegate. Perhaps you have not considered this but many officers appoint an equerry from among the Serfs, to assist with the mundane affairs so they can concentrate on the mission."

Hesitantly Toran argued, "But the Primarch wrote that there are no lesser duties. That attention to the smallest details creates the larger victory. What if something important is missed?"

Wrethan leaned back and said, "Which is why you must be careful in your selection. You must choose someone you can rely upon to know what is important enough to bring to your attention, yet has the initiative to deal with mundane matters alone."

Then Wrethan casually picked up a slate and said, "What matters are these that weigh so heavily upon you?"

"Damage reports mostly," Toran answered but then he said softly, "Casualty estimates too."

"Ah," Wrethan said knowingly as he lacing his fingers before him, "Now we come to the true heart of the matter."

Toran looked down at his calloused hands as he elaborated, "As best as can be told over five hundred serfs lost their lives in action. Not to enemy fire or tragic mishap, but directly caused by our manoeuvres… by my orders."

Chaplain Wrethan had an understanding look upon his face as he said, "In my time I have consoled many Brothers, both the lowest and the highest and there is one constant truth: it is never easy to loose men under your command. These men may not have been Initiates but they served the Chapter in their own manner and they were your responsibility. Space Marines were forged to know no fear but sorrow, anguish or remorse… in these matters we are not so far from human as many would like to believe."

"Why Father?" asked Toran despondently, "Why could they not just cut this guilt out of us like so much else?"

Wrethan sat up straight to emphasise his next point, "In ancient times the bureaucrats on Terra thought they had, they thought the Astartes were little more than bolters, weapons to be used and discarded. The Horus Heresy taught us all the folly of that, the first and greatest lesson the Chaplains learnt in that war was that at heart we remain men. Under all our gene-forging and indoctrination we are yet human, which is why we must ever be vigilant against our own flaws."

Toran looked up and asked "Then how does one come to terms with this loss?"

Wrethan replied sternly, "I will tell you the same thing I told Captain Phalros after his first command. You must hold to one truth: that these men willingly gave their lives for the Divine Emperor and for victory. This triumph is not yours it is theirs; it belongs to every man who laid down his life to make it happen. You must remember that no man who dies in the service of Him on Terra does so without purpose."

Toran nodded in understanding as Wrethan continued, "You showed steel when you made the necessary sacrifices for victory. Yet it is concerning that after all that you still took a great risk saving Ophelian."

"A calculated risk," said Toran looking up sharply, "And it worked."

But Wrethan stated gravely, "But the next time it could cost the Chapter dearly, you must accept that sacrifices are necessary, not only to ensure victory but to safeguard the lives of many more. You could go forth tomorrow and find a way to die in battle but as a commander you will be required to send others to die in your place. You must come to terms with this truth or you will fail as a leader and be removed from command."

Slowly Toran stated, "I have seen loss before, I have seen good brothers sacrificed for victory but I have never had to give such orders myself. I was always willing to die for the Emperor but now I see I must do something much harder, I must be willing to live on for Him, even when others do not."

Wrethan gave the Sergeant penetrating stare then seemed to reach a decision and said, "You have a quiet faith Toran, you do not trumpet it but the Chaplains have been watching you for a long time. I have pushed you hard these last few weeks, tested the quality of your spirit and your steel because we see great potential in you."

Toran frowned in confusion, unsure what the point was as Wrethan continued "What I have to say will shock you but the Imperium has failed the Emperor's vision… you have seen enough to realise it is a diseased and rotten thing."

"What are you saying?!" asked Toran in a startled tone of voice.

Yet Wrethan explained, "The Astartes stand apart from the Adeptus Terra for a good reason and our Chapter has come to embrace belief in the God-Emperor, because believing in the High Lords is impossible."

Toran could not hide his incredulity and said, "Father your words border on Heresy, are you saying we have rebelled against Terra?"

But Wrethan lifted his hands to refute that, "No, not at all, there are none who hold fiercer to the Divine right of the Emperor. It is the High Lords who have fallen short, those feeble clerks have fallen short of His vision. We uphold the ideals the Imperium was founded upon, even when Terra itself does not and we will not let scriveners and clerks stand in the way of the Divine Emperor's glorification. High Chaplain Samect has declared that through spreading belief in the Emperor, true faith not the sham peddled by the Eccelsiarchy, we shall lead humanity back to the righteous path."

"That is a noble goal," said Toran slowly.

However Wrethan's face became stony as he continued, "Understand this: there are those in the Chapter who do not agree, a few doubters who intend to return us to enslavement to those bloated bureaucrats. We do not know how many they are but now you have proven yourself as a leader we believe they will approach you soon."

Toran's jaw fell as he replied, "You intend to use me to identify and eliminate them?"

Wrethan looked shocked at the response, "Eliminate them?! Do you take us for kin-slayers? No, they remain brothers, misguided perhaps but still able to see the light if guided correctly. We shall take them by the hand and educate them in the truth of the Divine Emperor."

Toran considered this for long moments then said "What do you need of me?"

Wrethan smiled at his young protégés acceptance and said, "Merely to keep your eyes and ears open. Keep a sharp eye on Furion especially, he was rejected from the Chaplaincy for his refusal to embrace worship and may backslide. Most importantly say nothing, not to him or anyone else, report only to me."

Toran nodded to show his agreement then Wrethan said, "I am pleased to know you accept the necessity of this, with Marines like you among us we will see the Imperium restored to glory."

Then he stood up and bowed in respect before taking his leave. Toran watched him go and sat staring at the walls; he considered all he had heard and all he had done for a long time. He waited almost an hour then walked to the vox panel upon his wall. He raised a hand to open a channel then paused; he moved to a different control and checked his system was secure, then he checked it again.

Finally satisfied he opened a vox link and said, "Furion, meet me on the practice ranges at the sixth hour: there are matters of grave import to discuss."

 _The adventure continues in Tenebris Resurget_


End file.
